Chapter 95: Flame Under Ice

"Forgan."

Meaning flame under ice.

Not Common, nor those obscure difficult-to-understand northern colloquialisms.

Supposedly came from some epic passed down through "Frostthroat" clan generations.

Young Forgan always felt dissatisfied with his name.

In his little head, "flame" should be the most powerful thing in this world aside from the chief.

It could dispel cold, bringing rare warmth to clansmen amid ice, snow, wind and frost.

Even originally hard meat chunks that made teeth freeze and tremble when gnawed, after flame smoking and roasting, became soft, juicy and delicious—making him wish he could swallow his tongue.

And after learning from tribal warriors that those powerful barbarians protected by ancestral spirits often also burned the most fierce fury in their hearts.

He increasingly came to dislike his name.

Flame should burn brightly and without reservation.

Not be covered under ice layers.

Therefore, young Forgan, although having the most solid body among peers, rarely proudly introduced his name's origin like surrounding friends.

Just used arm muscles and a deliberately indifferent expression to deflect the topic.

But after all, he was a child with immature mind, longing for companions' recognition.

No matter how much he appeared not to care outside, whenever night deepened, he'd always pester his mother before sleep, asking again and again whether his name had other meanings.

Getting to the bottom, perseverance as if able to melt even frost.

Just, newborns' names in Frostthroat tribe were usually personally named by the chief after divination once they reached one month old.

The simple, hardworking young woman who'd never left Frost Moss Highlands since birth didn't know much more about "Forgan's" meaning than he did.

Also couldn't possibly disturb that busiest, most respected elder in the tribe over this matter.

So just repeatedly explained the meaning already said countless times.

"Under ice layers, burning flame."

"Ice layers, flame."

"Ice, flame..."

And whenever she faced the child's tireless questioning and gradually lost patience, she'd bring out that same small story repeated countless times.

"Disobedient children will be snatched from their houses by the winter spirit hag while sleeping at night, made into snowmen that can't speak."

Had to say, children on the ice plains really bought this.

Especially hearing how the hag rode her gray broom, using branch-like ugly, withered claws to grab necks and pull children from blankets.

No matter how excited Forgan was, he could only fearfully shrink his head into the covers, begging mother not to extinguish the furnace fire tonight.

Time flowed.

As his body grew increasingly solid, height shooting up.

When even his mother who once needed to crouch to see him eye-to-eye now had to raise her head to speak.

Childhood troubles had already been replaced by more green and chaotic worries and expectations.

Axe blades flashing cold light in ice and snow, new scars on arms, hot breath wolves spit when roaring... even the girl's braid swaying with wind behind her head.

Forgan no longer cared about his name's specific meaning.

Just a calling code.

"Rustle."

Weighing the heavy backpack in hand stuffed full with various supplies.

Forgan's face still retaining youthful tenderness showed a trace of helplessness.

"Don't need to bring so much. Can buy everything outside in town."

His small protest naturally couldn't match mother's worry.

Also understanding much more, knowing family was uneasy about himself about to travel far.

Not complaining, just joking a couple sentences, thinking to ease the wrinkles on mother's forehead, he firmly carried the bundle on his back.

Being seen off, walked out the door.

"Ah..."

A girl's surprised cry came to his ears.

Gaze looking over, only saw a snow-rabbit-like nimble figure, hurriedly leaving on two powerful long legs.

Leaving behind a long slightly-blue braid leaping in the snow light.

"Not going to say goodbye to her?"

Beside him, mother with some teasing, lightly patted his shoulder.

Forgan just shook his head, tightening the backpack behind him.

Happened to encounter the hunting team returning.

Brown thick fur frozen with ice crystals. The meat-mountain-like snowfield mammoth was carried into the tribe by several muscle-swollen, strongly-built barbarian warriors.

The wooden sled behind even dragged large and small many prey.

Great harvest under ancestral spirit protection.

With these catches, this year's deep winter wouldn't be as difficult as before for Frostthroat clan.

On both sides of the road, clansmen's joyful cheering entered ears.

Looking at those hunting team members with heads held high and chests out, Forgan's eyes flashed with envy, quickly disappearing in those ice-blue eyes' depths.

As the bravest warrior among the tribe's young generation.

He could have been one of them, just...

Forgan forcefully shook his head, throwing hesitation outside his mind.

Determination resurfaced on his face.

A winter wolf following in the team caught a familiar scent.

Sticking out its tongue, walking with nimble steps, it came over.

Body pressing against Forgan's thigh, fluffy head rubbing his palm.

Tail wagging at high speed kicked up waves of snowflakes on the ground. Wolf eyes capable of intimidating monsters contentedly squinted comfortably.

In his palm came the cool, smooth sensation of winter wolf fur

.

The most loyal companion's sudden action made the burly man walking at the hunting team's very front notice Forgan by the roadside.

Calling out to teammates beside him, he strode over.

"Decided?"

"Mm."

"No regrets?"

Forgan nodded forcefully.

Before him, the warrior who after hunts always told those stories surrounded by tribal children, was also no longer young.

Both temples seemed soaked in frost, completely white.

His thick, hard palm heavily fell on Forgan's shoulder.

"Good."

"Knowing where to walk is enough."

The words didn't contain much regret, only warmth for a young person finding the way forward.

Thinking, the warrior pulled out from his chest a mammoth tusk reflecting warm bone luster, stuffing it into Forgan's hand.

"Go."

"Whenever you want, come back anytime."

"The hunting team will always keep a position for you."

"..."

Forgan gripped the tusk in his hand. Accompanied by his mother, he came to the last stop before leaving the tribe.

"Whoosh."

Orange-red flames burned quietly, only occasionally when cold wind blew past producing a few weak flame sounds.

It had no so-called firewood in the world's eyes, just quietly resting on ice rock carved with intricate patterns and emanating barbaric aura.

Devouring ice, snow and cold in the highland air, as if converting them into fuel making it surge and boil.

Behind the flames, at the altar's very center, stood a pitch-black totem.

Surface patterns blurred—even looking closely up near, hard to distinguish the designs carved upon it.

Seemed to be some kind of flower?

Underage children in the tribe weren't allowed to approach. Touching was even more forbidden.

And after gradually growing up and losing curiosity, they often no longer paid attention to the totem's patterns either.

Forgan was the same.

Regarding the sacred flame before him supposedly from ancient times, his only impression was just when young, the chief facing his confusion, smilingly answering that line:

"This is Frostthroat clan's treasure. In this world, as long as one clansman still lives."

"The flame will never extinguish."

Right now, many years had passed since that day.

The chief was still that same smiling appearance. That aged face full of wrinkles since he could remember seemed no different from before.

Perhaps also had a few more wrinkles, just he hadn't discovered them.

Countless thoughts flowing, surging emotions under firelight's shroud gradually became calm.

About to travel far.

This elder who'd named him since Forgan's birth would also, representing the entire tribe, send him final blessings.

"Whooom boom!"

The originally calmly burning flames suddenly became fierce. Warm flame radiance and dazzling hazy light under clouds interwove and merged. Under the pitch-black totem's guidance, they transformed into a beam shining down faintly, shrouding Forgan.

Lips moving, lightly chanting unknown hymns, ice-blue faint light rose from the old man's fingertips.

Trembling, on the barbarian's green face, outlining barbaric and sacred patterns.

Flickering then extinguishing.

The ice-blue radiance seemed to seep into his body, gradually dimming and dissipating.

That was blessing from tribal ancestor spirits.

Forgan slowly stood up. Toward the smiling elder before him looking at himself, and the flames and totem further behind, he lowered his head in salute.

After today, he would completely leave the tribe, seeking his own path.

Suddenly, commotion came from the onlooking crowd to his side.

In clansmen's kind laughter.

The girl with long braid, snow-rabbit-like, came panting before him.

Gradually approaching, originally hasty chaotic footsteps also increasingly slowed.

On her snow-white tender cheeks appeared a shy blush.

She didn't speak.

Just with both hands cupped, passed a thin chain personally woven before Forgan's eyes.

Reaching out to receive the necklace, Forgan looked at the charming young girl near.

Opening his mouth, seemed to want to say something.

The world at this moment seemed to have pause pressed.

Falling snowflakes and swaying flame tendrils were frozen in midair; the sharp cold wind perpetually circling overhead no longer howled; laughter from the surrounding crowd also suddenly disappeared.

The girl, elder, mother looking at him in the crowd—seemed frozen in place.

Subconsciously already anticipating what would happen, Forgan wanted to struggle and shout, yet similarly couldn't move.

Whooom—

The next second, time suddenly accelerated.

Already solid muscles gradually swelled. Greenness on his face was replaced by maturity and weathering. Coarse stubble grew on his chin;

The girl before him also shed tenderness in time's passage. The old man's hair became more white. Mother's eye corners were filled with wrinkles.

Then came that nauseating dark purple radiance emitting decayed aura.

In air that should be full of ice, snow and cold, suddenly permeated some smoke-like, extremely fine plant spores.

Carrying rich malice hidden in nature's deepest parts, spores lightly fell on clansmen's bodies.

Taking root and sprouting, drawing life vitality.

That skin not showing decline even under wind and frost erosion gradually became gray-green due to life loss, dirty spots appearing on the surface.

Fungal threads squirming, from beneath pores, between hair strands, breeding and spreading, entangling and growing together...

Having experienced it countless times, Forgan still closed his eyes, not daring to look.

That memory more painful than the sharpest fangs still washed through his mind again and again.

Even though many years had passed.

He still remembered.

After returning to the tribe, the ruins buried by ice and snow before his eyes.

Personally digging through cold snow soil, burying clansmen's corpses beneath ice monuments;

Peeling off winter wolf's already stiff fur, using bone nails made from mammoth tusks to pierce wolf jaws, embedding them in his chest;

Tearing apart those intertwined thorns, re-erecting the collapsed totem, picking up fragments from the ground, using cold wind and ice crystals to craft them into an axe blade flickering with dim light...

Sitting alone before the altar with only weak flames.

In Forgan's hand was that simple necklace seemingly still carrying body warmth, full of girlish feelings.

That face calm as frost, unchanged even facing a dragon's cast shadow.

Suddenly aware of a scorching drop sliding down.

Only at this instant.

Did he finally know his name's true meaning.

"Forgan."

"Flame under ice layers."

......

......

"Crack pop."

Water remaining in branches, under flame burning, broke free from wood fiber bonds, producing crisp sounds.

Forgan's eyes snapped open. The forest-cold aura surrounding his body gradually dissipated as the nightmare extinguished.

Wolf jaws crossed at his chest. Silver-white fur on the cloak lightly swayed with evening wind; the thin chain hung with bone fang pendants at his neck reflected flame light under firelight; the black obsidian small axe at his waist lightly rested on the ground.

He sat by the bonfire, rough face still that ice-cold appearance as if covered by frost without any ripples.

As if just closing eyes for a brief rest, nothing happened.

But the camp's gradually rising temperature and ice crystals flickering with fluorescence in the surrounding air showed his inner turmoil just now.

The giant oak behind him seemed completely intact—only faint ice gleams flashed through rough bark crevices.

Actually from deep soil's massive root system all the way up to crown's small branches, the interior wrapped by bark had all transformed into ice sculptures.

"Achoo!"

I sat across the bonfire, body shivering as I suddenly sneezed.

Hard to imagine that in the year's hottest season, wearing double-layer armor, I could still catch cold from freezing.

Extending both hands near, warming by the fire.

Slightly raising my head, I glanced at the barbarian Forgan sitting quietly across.

I naturally knew the camp environment's sudden change was related to him.

Since discovering that mushroom in the goblin nest during the day, he'd been somewhat off.

But Forgan had no intention of explaining, so I didn't ask.

Right now developing to this extent, I couldn't say nothing.

Hesitating slightly, with some caution, I slowly spoke:

"Is there... some situation?"

The barbarian didn't raise his head. In ice-blue eyes reflected orange-red firelight.

"It's fine."